IGOR POMERANZEV
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as Russia, which chronically suffers from spiritual hunger. And
again in 1974, the same number was published of a 200 page or so
book of Osip Mendelstam, who was killed in Stalin's camps. I was
able to buy this book of the murdered poet only after I arrived in the
West. I cannot help but feel ashamed when I think about the three
fat tomes of Mendelstam that the Americans published . I am to
blame. It is my fault that in my country they kill poets .
It just so happened that almost all the major moments of my
life, which demanded from me not only reflection or self-analysis,
but direct action as well, were connected in some way with books.
When I entered first grade I finally gained my rights. Already
on the second day of school, I came to register with two other first
graders at the local children's library. Of course they asked us to fill
out some forms. Luckily I knew how to write, and getting smeared
with ink from my head down to my heels and having sweated out an
hour, I returned our forms to the librarian. Just as in all other Soviet
forms, the library forms contained, among other questions, one
about nationality. At that time I did not yet know that every person
had his own nationality, despite the fact that I used to play "Ger–
mans and Russians" with other children in the yard. And for some
reason my classmates already knew this, in contrast to myself who
already knew how to write . When I came to the line that asked for
nationality on my form, they became strangely serious, exchanged
glances, and jabbered one after another, 'Write Jewish'." Not
thinking about this for too long, I also wrote in my form 'Jewish,"
just as I had written in theirs. The librarian gave me a penetrating
stare and then cautiously said, "Look here, little Igor, you are most
likely Russian. You have a Russian name and you look Russian." I
looked for support in the eyes of my friends, but for some reason
they looked away. They simply evaded my glance and behaved as if
they saw nothing and heard nothing. I turned red from desperation.
I could feel that something in this converstion was shameful even
though I did not understand what. I saw that my classmates felt bad,
that any minute they might burst out crying, and then I answered
the Librarian, "No, I am a Jew.
If
they are Jews, then I, too, am
Jewish."
I spent my childhood and adolescence in Western Ukraine, in
Chernivtsi, which, before World War I, was part of the Austro–
Hungarian Empire, and afterwards belonged to Rumania until
1940.
I loved my city and was overcome with a feeling of pride every
